


A Different Life

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:43:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a Dick Fix-it Fic: Dick ends up trying to fix Bruce's love life. Since Dick's own love life is currently skating out of control, this is a spectacularly bad idea.</p><p>Look, I don't have a whole lot of justification for this piece of fluff. I've just always loved the idea of Dick trying to insert himself in Bruce's personal life, because Dick has this way of just slicing through all of Bruce's avoidance and bullshit, and also just because, come on, Dick is hilarious. Dick trying to fix people is even more hilarious.</p><p>It also occurred to me as I was writing this that it's sort of the dark twin of one of my earliest stories, Shit My Dad Says. I guess I am wedded to the trope of "Dick goes to Bruce for advice, which goes poorly." For that matter, so is DC, so I won't feel bad about it. </p><p>Hints of offstage Birdflash, Spitfire, and whatever the hell the smush name is for Batgirl and Nightwing. Never mind, don't tell me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Life

It wasn't that Bruce had ever solved problems for him by talking them out, when he was little. 

It wasn't that Bruce had ever talked anything out, in point of fact.

To tell the truth, he couldn't really remember a single important conversation from his childhood. Bruce's words had never been half so significant as Bruce's. . . not his actions, really, because that wasn't it either, exactly. It was Bruce's presence. When he had been little, it had been the very fact of that presence that had consoled him: steel-solid, muscle-dense, quiet. Sitting at the bank of monitors in the cave, considering some new set of facts. Studying, analyzing, weighing, thinking. That wordless presence had been the wall he had backed against in every crisis of his life, from the time he was eight years old. 

So where else would he come, when his heart was broken open and bleeding on the floor?

He sat atop a console of disused monitors, brooding in what Babs would call true Waynian fashion: arms curled around his legs, scowl in place, eyes remote. Bruce was typing away at the keyboard, and hadn't turned around in forty-five minutes. 

"So Wally and Artemis are getting married," Dick offered, and Bruce made a sound that might have been an answering grunt, or just an exhale. He continued to type. 

"Next year some time," he continued. He was proud of how his voice sounded, how steady, how casual almost. Of course he cared about it. His best friend was getting married, so of course he would care. But not too much. Not in a way that would be odd, or occasion comment. 

"They haven't set a date yet. And they can't figure out whether to have a big formal wedding or not. There's always the chance Artemis's dad might show up—or her sister, which would be disastrous if Roy were there, which of course he will be, because then the whole thing would turn into World War Three, and Artemis and Wally would have to Navy seal-crawl out of their own wedding reception while the deadly weapons were flying."

He was quiet a minute more, but Bruce still had no response. "So, yeah," he said lightly. "There's that. They're getting married." And he turned his face toward the damp rock wall, as his throat betrayed him and clenched. He swallowed hard.

"They'll invite you, for sure," he said. "Artemis may be scared shitless of you, but Wally's idolized you since we were young. From pretty much the first time he came over to the house. He would always. . ." A rush of memories tugged him under.

_We don't have to, if you don't want._

_I do want._

_I'm just saying, if you didn't._

_Wally. I want. I want. . ._

_Yeah? Tell me. You tell me what you want, and I'll do it, I swear to God, anything. Can I touch you here? God, Rob, tell me I can touch you, tell me I can. . ._

All the times they had frozen at a step in the hall. All Wally's terror that Bruce was going to walk in on them. Hasty, frantic kissing in his room, lips and teeth and panting mouths. Pulling Wally into the big closet and making out in there, rubbing hungry aching groins together. The first time he had seen Wally come. The first time Wally had made him come. He had been fourteen. 

_Shit, I'm sixteen, I'm two years older, we have to stop, Rob, I have to—_

_Don't you dare, come on, don't stop, don't be that way, I need—_

Wally's mouth on his, like he would never get enough.

Evidently he had been able to get enough, after all. Dick swallowed against the memories. "Anyway," he said. "If the wedding's next spring, then we should—" He broke off, as a spasm of pain wrenched him, a physical thing. He beat back the ache that writhed and twisted in his chest. "Anyway," he said again, and then nothing. Bruce had stopped typing. 

"I'll be fine by next year," he said. "It will be fine."

Bruce was looking at him. Of course Bruce knew. Had known all along, or figured it out pretty damn quick. Wally's testicles would have retracted to his ribcage, if he had known how much Bruce knew. _Not in this house_ , Bruce had said, gimlet-eyed. _If Wally's in your room, that door is going to be open._

Dick had fumed, had muttered, had glowered—had done all the things you did when you were being raised by Batman, and shouting, screaming, and generally throwing a teenage tantrum was not an option. He had accused Bruce of hypocrisy ( _you have sex in this house all the time!_ ) of bigotry ( _it's because I had a guy in my room, if it was Zatanna you wouldn't have cared!_ ) of pettiness ( _you want me to be alone, just like you are!_ ) but in the end he had of course obeyed, and make-out sessions had moved to Mount Justice after that. But yeah, Bruce had known. They had imagined they were being so discreet, so ninja, walking around with their awkward boners and furtive glances.

"It was a long time ago," Dick said. "It's not like it matters any more."

Bruce was still just looking at him. "To Wally, anyway," he amended, hating the catch in his voice. "It's just—fuck!" He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, and kicked out at the console beneath him. "God fucking dammit," he moaned. "Goddammit." He pushed off the console and paced like he was looking for something to punch, which he was. Any wall would do.

"How the fuck could he—he fucking texts me, he _texted_ me. With like forty-nine thousand exclamation points. 'Hey dude, she said yes, we're getting married!!!' And that's great, you know, congratu-fucking-lations, but could we at least _pretend_ to acknowledge that there might be some small part of me that deserved—oh, I don't know, maybe a _phone_ call? Maybe a conversation that began, hey, I wanted you to be the first to know? That at least, however _minimally_ , acknowledged that once upon a time he and I— _fuck_ ," and he rammed his fist into the punching bag that swayed around the corner from the monitor station, hard enough to break something. 

He hit the bag again, because it felt so good, and then again, and again, and then he kept going until he was panting and he could feel the sheen of sweat prickle his forehead. Bruce had spun in his chair and was just watching him beat the ever-living shit out of the bag, dispassionately. Dick tipped his head against the bag.

"Tell me what to do," he croaked. "Tell me what to fucking do."

A small line furrowed Bruce's forehead. "About what?"

"About this. About this thing inside me that won't go away, no matter what I do. Believe me I have tried, I have tried every single thing—I have fucked like you would not believe, I have fucked every available warm body—" He could see the skate of Bruce's disapproving eyebrow at that. "But none of it does any good, I cannot get him out of my head, I cannot get past it, I just, just _cannot_ , and Bruce, please, you have to tell me what to do, I cannot live like this, I cannot go the rest of my life with this. . . _thing_ inside me that I can't beat or fuck or reason out of me, I am telling you I. Cannot. Do it." 

Bruce was steepling his fingers and regarding him. "You have to," was all he said.

"No!" Dick's roar echoed off the cave walls, and he shot a powerful roundhouse kick to the bag. "Easy for you to say, you have _no_ idea what the hell I'm going through here! Well I'm sorry, sometimes life is not as easy as _you have to_ , life is not a fucking training exercise where you can push me harder just by telling me to do it, I am not your Luke fucking Skywalker, I will not stand here and listen to—you have no _fucking_ idea what you are talking about!" The bag swung back and he punched it again, hard enough to reverb up his arm.

"Is that so," Bruce said. 

The tone of Bruce's voice stopped him cold. The petulant echo of his own outburst was still ringing in the cave. Good Christ, what he had just said to Bruce. He was a piece of shit. He shut his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean that."

He braced himself on the bag so he wouldn't have to look at Bruce. "Tell me how to do it then," he said. His voice was scratched and broken. "Tell me how."

When he dared a look at Bruce, Bruce wasn't looking at him anymore, but at the floor. He was a thousand miles away, thinking about something that had nothing to do with Dick. Someone very far from this room. Not that they had ever talked about it. Not that they ever would. He shrugged. "I don't know," he said.

"Just tell me this," Dick sighed. "Just tell me. Does it ever get better?"

A small shake of the head, but it was a knife to Dick's chest. "Why," was all he could say. "Why does it feel this way for me, and why can he pretend it never happened. Why can't I be like that."

"Because he doesn't love you the way that you love him."

The knife casually thrust in Dick's chest dove for his left ventricle and stuck there, quivering. "Jesus," he gasped. "Don't try to make me feel better or anything."

"Why would I do that."

Dick squinted at Bruce. "Okay," he said. "Maybe so. Maybe it's that way for me. Doesn't mean it's that way for you."

A muscle jumped in the side of Bruce's jaw. Too close to things that were not for talking about. "My point is, I know the way things are for me," Dick said. "I know because I at least gave it a shot. I at least had a chance. But you never did, so you don't know."

"That's enough," Bruce said sharply. But Dick wasn't a teenager anymore, and he wasn't so easy to shut down. 

"Bruce, I'm serious. I get what you're saying—it sucks, and there's nothing that can be done about it, so you just man up and deal. But maybe you _don't_ actually know what you're talking about, because maybe that's not the case for you at all. I mean, seriously, Bruce. How the hell would you know?"

Bruce's face was several steps past murderous. "This conversation is over," he said. The voice was Batman's voice. 

"Why, because you might have to talk about something personal? Because for one millisecond you might have to have an emotional conversation that doesn't begin and end with 'you have to' or some bullshit like that? Because you can't admit your whole life might have been different if you had actually been able to talk about your feelings?"

"Are you done?"

He gave one last desultory punch to the bag, then hugged it as it came back around, slowing its motion, swaying with it. "I'm just saying. If you had ever told him—"

"I did."

That he had not expected to hear. Almost he didn't hear it, Bruce was so quiet. He was also suddenly intensely interested in something on the keyboard, fiddling with it. Dick didn't know what to say. _Oh_ seemed inadequate. "I did," Bruce repeated, as quietly as before. His frowning scrutiny of the nothing on the keyboard intensified. "It was. . . a long time ago."

"Oh," Dick began, because inadequate as it was, he couldn't find anything better. "Well. I. . ."

"Go on, get out of here. I have work to do."

"Sure," he said. "All right. Well. Thanks for the, ah. . . advice."

It was Bruce who turned on his heel and swirled from the room, his cape billowing behind him. Dick stood and listened to his heavy tread on the stairs, then shut his eyes. "Sorry," he whispered, as the door at the top slid closed.

* * *

And if he hadn't drawn the short straw at work the next week, he wouldn't have thought about their conversation again. Because like always, it wasn't anything Bruce had said that had been comforting; in fact, Bruce never said anything comforting. It was just that he had been there, that he had let Dick rant, that there had been a place to go spill all that poison and pain and ache. But he wouldn't have thought about it again, if he hadn't had to pull a late-nighter finishing up the paperwork on last week's police reports, which meant leaving the P.D. at one in the goddamned morning, which meant pulling his coat tight around him and walking briskly down the chilly deserted sidewalks of Bludhaven, glancing in the bars as he walked, because they were pools of light and warmth, and he was just considering stopping in one of the least seedy for a little bit of old-fashioned liquid heat, when he had stopped short at the distinctive dark head bent over a drink, and thought, what the hell?

"Clark?"

The eyes had focused just a fraction too slow. "Dick," he said, with a pleasure that was clearly completely a lie. Clark wasn't at all happy to see him. "What are you doing here?"

"Ah, right back at you. What the hell are you doing over in Bludhaven? Everything all right?"

"Oh." Clark waved at the bar. "I'm just. . . relaxing."

Dick frowned. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but even you need to sleep, right?"

"Sure."

"Then my guess is, you're not doing much of it. If you were anyone else I would say you're drunk, but since you can't get drunk I'm going to go with completely fucking exhausted. Clark. What's the matter?"

Clark's smile was strained and distant. Distant as only Clark's smile could be, when he was being polite. "Just a lot on my mind, I guess. And I like Bludhaven, it's a nice retreat from Gotham and Metropolis."

"Uh huh," Dick said skeptically. "Well, no offense, but your nice retreat is kind of a dive. Feel like buying me a drink?"

"Sure, that'd be great," Clark said, obviously meaning the opposite. He raised a finger at the bartender.

"I'll have what he's having," Dick said, pulling up a stool.

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Clark said.

"Afraid I can't hold my liquor?" He gave a wolfish grin. "I can keep up, I promise. So tell me more about what brings you to my fair city. Crime all finished in Metropolis? Looking to expand operations southward?"

Clark's smile was the same excruciatingly courteous one. "Something like that. Speaking of crime, whatever happened with that narco bust you were talking about last month? How did that go?"

"Oh, about as brilliantly as they all do. Bust was clean, evidence was solid, perps are gonna walk."

"You're kidding."

"Nope." Dick took a slug off his drink and bit back the cough. "Jesus Christ. What the hell is this?"

"Absinthe."

He blinked. "You're shitting me. Absinthe? Like what crazy old French people drink, in the little cafés?"

Clark's small smile was close to an actual one. "It's a hundred and forty-four proof. Unmixed with water, absinthe will scorch the skin off the roof of your mouth. It's also a mild hallucinogen, so watch out."

"Great. And you're drinking this why?"

Clark shrugged. "I like the taste."

"You are. . . odd."

Clark laughed like this was secretly amusing. "So what happened with that bust?"

"That's just the way things go down in Bludhaven. We can do everything right on our end, but with corrupt judges, it doesn't matter how hard we work, we're still going to get the shaft. It's enough to make you go back to full-time vigilante work. I used to wonder how it was we kept on fighting the same villains over and over. Well, now I know."

"Any chance of the Bludhaven judiciary getting reformed anytime soon?"

"About a snowball's chance. Well, not quite that bad—there is this politician who's making some noises. . ." He was off talking about Bludhaven politics, the ins and outs of the police department and its tortured relationship with City Hall, and he was fifteen minutes into it before he realized Clark was drawing him out with leading questions and interested noises, in that way he had of gently moving you away from aiming any questions at him—he just found you so _interesting_ , you see, and what you were saying so deeply fascinating. It was irritating as fucking hell.

"I notice you're not wearing your wedding ring," Dick said abruptly. Clark took another sip of his drink.

"Nope," he said.

"How long has that been the case?" 

"About six months."

Dick had no answer to that one, because six months. He tried to remember when was the last time he'd seen Clark in civvies, and couldn't place it. It could have been longer, and he wouldn't have noticed. "Does that mean. . . what I think it means?"

"I would say it means pretty much what it means the world over when you're not wearing a wedding ring."

"Oh. Jesus. I'm sorry, Clark, I had no idea."

"Well, it would make a nice sound bite to say _neither did I_ , but that would be a lie. Really, it's fine. We're both fine. It wasn't anything terribly dramatic. I'm not in need of sympathy."

"Uh huh. Which is why the absinthe in a seedy bar in a shithole city at one-thirty in the morning?"

"Like I said, I like absinthe. And whenever possible, absinthe should be drunk in a seedy bar. It adds to the flavor. Crazy old French people strictly optional, but bitter Kryptonians are a nice touch."

Dick gave a short laugh. He forgot, every now and again, that Clark's humor was gentle and wry and self-deprecating. He forgot how he could pull you in like this, how he could charm you and make you smile and get you talking; forgot how clever he was, how quietly watchful. 

"So," he said. "What did happen with Lois? Did she leave you, or was it the other way around?"

"What's your guess?"

"My guess is the former, because if it were the latter I think you'd be going a little lighter on the absinthe there, Van Gogh."

"He was Dutch."

"But he lived in France. Didn't he live in France? Am I misremembering that? I ought to get it right, my education was fucking expensive. Wow, this shit is strong. I am possibly buzzing quite a bit."

"You are," Clark said pleasantly. "And you're right, she left me. It turns out that she cares for me a great deal, but maybe not in the way you're supposed to when you marry someone. I am not, as it turns out, the sort of person people fall in love with."

"Wow. That's harsh. She said that?"

Clark waved his hand. "Not that last part. But I think it was implied. In my more self-pitying moments, I'm pretty sure that's exactly what she meant."

"Well," Dick temporized. "Probably not."

"Oh?" Clark arched a brow at him. "You think not? You think dating aliens is high on everybody's dream list? You'd be surprised how much that is not true." They were by themselves at the end of the bar, and speaking softly, but nonetheless Dick flinched to hear him use the word. It was the way he said it, which was. . . not nice. 

"If you're asking me to pity you, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be doing that. Invulnerable, unconquerable, supernaturally beautiful—yeah, poor Clark."

He snorted into his absinthe. "You just described a piece of art, some vase under glass in a museum. Not a person. People. . . they don't love a piece of art."

"Give me a break," Dick muttered. 

"I'm serious. With all of your imperfections, I'd wager you've had about five times the romantic interactions I have."

"Ten," Dick said. "And 'all of my imperfections'? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"My point is, I'm not the sort of—"

"Yeah, yeah, poor Clark, he suffers more than anybody, nobody loves him. That would be a little easier for me to buy if you didn't have pretty much the most unbelievable person in the world completely in love with you, so why don't you shop the pity party next door, because I ain't buying, not tonight."

Clark was staring at him intently, and Dick's head did that thing it did where it re-looped the last five minutes of conversation for him, and man, it would be truly and purely a thing of wonder if he could make it do that shit _before_ he put his foot in it spectacularly. One of these days. "What are you talking about?" Clark was frowning at him now.

"I mean. . . I was talking about. . ." It was like his parachute-sac was stuffed with fifty-pound cinder blocks, and he was plummeting to earth at terminal velocity. "I didn't. . . I was talking about, I've had too much of this hallucinogenic crap. I don't know what the hell is in this, but never trust a green drink." He had been fishing out his money while talking, and he slapped a five on the bar. "There you go, I can get my own. Thanks for the offer, though. Listen, I've got to get home—I have to be down at the station by eight, and it's going to be that in just a few hours anyway, so might as well get at least an hour or so of sleep. Catch you later, Clark." He had been shrugging on his coat while he spoke.

"Dick, what did you—"

He pushed his way out of the bar and walked as quickly as possible. Shit shit shit. He could not believe he had said that. Of all the dumbass maneuvers. It was just that Clark had pissed him off, with that airy comment about how even he with all of his 'imperfections' could get laid more often than poor Clark, and it had just flicked him on the raw, right where he was still smarting from Wally, and his mouth had engaged before his brain could even shift into first. He walked even faster when he heard the tinkle of the bar door behind him, and Clark's quick step. 

"Dick! Wait up!"

Fuck fuck fuck. Clark had caught up to him now, coat flapping in the night wind. "Dick, what the hell was that about? What did you mean when you said—"

"Just forget it, okay? Just forget I said anything. I should have kept my big mouth shut. I shouldn't have said anything, so can we just forget I said it? Can you just go drink some more pansy-ass French shit and leave me the hell alone?"

He was almost to the parking garage where he kept his bike, and another twenty feet had him inside the ramps and walking fast up to the second level. Clark was keeping pace with him, and then Clark grabbed his arm. "No," he said levelly. "Tell me what you meant."

"Oh for fuck's sake, what do you _think_ I meant? Why the hell would you follow me out here if you didn't already _know_ what I meant?"

Clark's face was still, his eyes very quick on Dick's face. Of course the absinthe wasn't going to affect him, and even lack of sleep wasn't going to faze him much. "You said the most unbelievable person in the world is completely in love with me. Who were you talking about?"

"I didn't—I wasn't—I just—"

"Dick! For God's sake tell me what you—"

" _Bruce_ , all right? I meant Bruce, who did you goddamn think I meant?"

Clark dropped his arm, which he hadn't realized he had still been holding. He wasn't entirely sure how Clark's circulatory system worked, but he could swear Clark had gone whiter than usual, even. "You're mistaken," Clark said quietly. But there was something else in his voice, too.

"No, I'm really not, okay? And I should have kept my goddamn mouth shut, only you already know everything I'm saying, don't you? You already know he's in love with you, because he told you."

Clark's furrow deepened to a frown. "Now I really have no idea what you're talking about."

"Right. Whatever. Let's just forget this whole conversation ever happened, all right?"

"Please." Clark's voice thrummed with something he couldn't place. "Dick. Tell me why you say that. Tell me how you know. . . what you said about Bruce."

Dick's sigh was long and loud. In for a penny, in for a pound. He had already fucked up massively; it wasn't like this made it worse. "I know because he told me, all right? Because we had a conversation about it. We had a conversation about it just last week."

He had been wrong about Clark being pale before; now he was positively bloodless. "Last week," he repeated. "He said—he said to you, last week, this. . . about me?"

Dick spread his hands. "Yes."

"He said. . . he said that, about me?"

"Yes."

"By name? He mentioned me by name."

"Well," Dick said, "not explicitly, no," and Clark released the breath Dick hadn't known he'd been holding.

"Right," he said. The thing that had been in his face, his voice, was wiped away. He started laughing, but it was not a pleasant laugh. It was tired, and reminded Dick of the way he'd said _alien_ , before.

"Clark," he said. "Clark, come on. You have to know. He does, all right? It's you. It was always you. He was—we were talking about you."

Clark was shaking his head. "Dick," he said. He sounded older than Dick had thought he could sound. "I understand why you would think that. Why you would want to think that. But believe me. . . believe me, if Bruce. . . felt that way about me, my whole life would be different right now."

He walked off, back down the ramp of the garage, head down, intent. Just any guy in a trenchcoat, walking home in the wee hours. Dick wondered if he would duck into an alley, find somewhere secluded, and then lift off for home. He'd never seen anyone look quite so tired in his life. 

"Well, _fuck_ ," Dick said to the parking garage. The final fricative caught a nice echo in the hollow concrete caverns.

* * *

"So I'm about to do something I really, really shouldn't," Dick said two nights later. He was back in the cave, but he wasn't perched on a console this time. He was sitting in the chair beside Bruce, spinning idly back and forth, watching Bruce work, and occasionally leaning in to look at data Bruce handed him. 

"Then don't," Bruce grunted.

"Ehh," Dick grimaced. "Not that easy. See, I kind of fucked up, but I think I can fix it."

"Fucked up how." It was a bad habit of Bruce's, never to use verbal question marks. It was like the man was incapable of inflecting upward at the end of a sentence. He was busy examining a data stream. 

"The thing is this. I don't think Clark has any idea how you feel about him."

Bruce's head slowly lifted from the print-outs laid across the keyboard. It slowly rotated in Dick's direction. The pale flat eyes slowly took him in, like he had dropped from a hole in the ceiling just that instant. Dick ignored him and barreled on. "See, and the reason I say this is—"

"What did you just say."

"I said, I don't think Clark has any idea how you feel about him, because when I mentioned it to him the other night, he acted like he had never heard of this idea before, and then he said, and I quote, if Bruce felt that way about me—"

"Are you on _drugs_?"

Turned out he had been wrong, about that upward inflection thing. Bruce's voice skated upward, easily half an octave. "You've got to hear me out," Dick said, quailing only a little. "I know you're pretty pissed at me right now, but I only mentioned it in the first place because Clark was being such a piss-ant about nobody loving him ever, boo-hoo, he's gonna eat some worms and die, and he just irritated all fuck out of me, and I just said it, all right? I said it because you had told me you had told him, years ago, so I didn't exactly think I was issuing a newsflash so much as reminding him of something I thought he already knew, only my point is I don't actually think he did, because you should have seen his face when I—"

"Get. Out."

Dick held up his hands. "Just—just hold off a second. If you'll try to look beyond the violation of confidence, which I'll grant you appears initially pretty egregious, and listen to the substance of what I'm actually—"

The keyboard—all three keyboards, actually—and the stack of data print-outs were swept to the floor with a crash. One keyboard ricocheted off the opposite rock wall and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. An 's' skittered to Dick's foot. Bruce was standing over him. His hands were fists, his whole body tensed and trembling, ready to spring. The light in his eyes made Dick recoil, and whatever fumbling thing he had been going to say was lost. He had seen Bruce lose control once, maybe twice in his life, and he had never, not once, seen it aimed at him. 

"Get out," Bruce whispered, in a softness more terrifying than a roar. "Quickly."

Dick rose and obeyed, knowing better than to offer apology or explanation or anything that would threaten whatever tenuous control Bruce had on his rage right now. 

It wasn't so much terminal velocity as the speed of light squared, and he wasn't so much hurtling toward the earth's surface as plunged several miles beneath it, roiling in molten magma. Fucking up would be an improvement, from this. He had landed so far on the other side of fucking up he couldn't even see fucking up from where he was. Fucking up would be something he aspired to, after this. He would fall down on his knees in gratitude, if he could attain to fucking up. 

Not that he was going to have knees, when Bruce was finished with him.

* * *

And that was exactly where he should have left things. Exactly where he would have left them, if things had been different. 

He couldn't have said when he had figured out that Bruce loved Clark, in that way. He didn't remember not knowing it, truth was; it was just one of those self-evident things, like sunshine or Alfred's waffles or the ability to release from a highwire and arc through the air to another wire. Clark had been as much a part of his growing up as Bruce or Alfred—had been at the Manor, had been there lending a helping hand, had been an indispensable partner in the field, had been the one he could talk to when nobody else would listen. And he had just assumed that Clark loved Bruce too, and that they were together in the vague and best-left-unexamined way his ten-year-old brain could compute.

Only when he was a bit older, and was examining some of those ways himself, had he realized that the two of them weren't, in fact, together in that way. Had realized that Bruce looked at Clark in a way he looked at no one else, and then shifted his eyes quickly away if Clark happened to glance at him. Had realized the painful truth without being told. 

At Clark and Lois's wedding, he had kept a respectful distance from Bruce, giving him his space. He had seen the mask slip into place, the smiling remote mask Bruce Wayne wore at all social events he was invited to. And if he drank a little bit more at the reception than Bruce Wayne normally did, and left a little bit earlier, Dick wasn't going to be the one to stop him. Bruce had never said anything to him about it, and Dick had never asked. The conversation in the cave that night, when he had been talking about Wally and Artemis, was the closest they had ever come, and part of him was still stunned Bruce had said even that much.

The problem was, now he couldn't stop thinking about it. Because he knew the truth now. He had seen Clark's face, heard his voice, when for five minutes he had thought that Bruce had feelings for him that went beyond friendship. It was like some light inside him had flicked on, some glow that Dick hadn't even known was in there. It had been a little hard to look at. For years he had just assumed Clark was as straight as they came; maybe Bruce had assumed the same thing. But if Clark felt that way, and Bruce felt that way, he could not for the life of him figure out why the two of them could not put it together. 

But there didn't seem to be any way to help either of them. Bruce hadn't talked to him in weeks—wasn't returning his phone calls, his texts, or his e-mails. He didn't drop in on him in the cave, partly because that would have been a clear violation of his wishes, and partly because he didn't want the pain of discovering the codes had been changed, and he no longer had admittance. He could have gotten Jason to let him in, but that might have led to an awkward conversation he was anxious to avoid. He was doing better, in getting along with Jason these days: at sixteen the kid's personality had matured into something more-or-less bearable, and he no longer grated on Dick's nerves just by inhaling. 

"You don't have to pretend to like me," was the first thing Jason had ever said to him, when they were alone together in the cave.

"Kid, I'm here to help. I'd like to be your friend, if you'll let me. There's a lot to being Robin I can—"

"Suck my cock," the kid—twelve years old, mind you—had said to him. 

"Aren't you just adorable," Dick had replied, squinting at the kid's dark hair, light eyes, and square little jaw. "You sure you're not actually related to him?" 

"I know who my parents were, and they weren't circus niggers like—"

Dick's throttling arm had turned into an affectionate scrub of his head as Bruce had walked around the corner. Things were better these days: Jason kept his mouth more or less under control around Dick, and Dick for his part tried not to kill him more than once or twice a week. So sure, he and Jason had settled into a kind of détente these days, but he wasn't exactly eager for the kid to know that he and Bruce were on the outs. 

Which left Clark. "So I kind of need a favor," he said to Clark, over pie at the diner one day. It was a habit they had gotten into, when Dick had joined the force in Bludhaven—once every week, or every couple of weeks, they would get together for coffee at the diner, just to touch base, to talk about things. Clark was a good sounding board, and a great listener, and if Bruce was the silent solid presence in his life, Clark was the one who would come up with thoughtful responses. Half the time Dick wasn't sure if Bruce's silences were because he was taciturn by nature, or because he had stopped listening an hour ago and was contemplating new engineering schematics on the Batmobile. Fully fifty percent of the time, he suspected the latter. 

"A favor," Clark said dubiously. "And that would be what, now?"

"That would be. . ." Dick fiddled with the coffee spoon. "Has Bruce said anything to you in the last week or so, about me?"

"About you? No, I don't think so." Clark was drinking his coffee and looking out the window. A few flakes of snow were drifting down, and it would get worse before tonight.

"Are you lying?"

"Well, if I were, I would probably do better than 'I don't think so.' Why, what's going on?"

"Oh, well. . . you know. This and that. He's sort of in a way partially not speaking to me, at all."

Both Clark's eyebrows shot up. "To _you _? Dick, what on earth happened?"__

"I. . ." He waved his hand. "Doesn't matter. It's a long story. Anyway, I was just wondering if he had said anything about it to you. Also, if you would—" He studied his hands around the coffee mug. This part was harder than he had thought it would be. "Would you please just tell him—tell him I'm sorry."

Clark didn't offer comment. Clark was good about knowing when to shut up, too. "I've told him that, myself, but he's not exactly reading my e-mails right now. If you would just let him know that, from me. Please."

"Of course I will." Clark's voice was warm and sympathetic and kind and pretty much designed to make Dick start losing it. "Dick. I'm here, if you want to talk about it."

"I really, really don't, but thanks anyway."

Clark was just studying him, between occasional bites of pie. "This wouldn't have anything to do with our conversation of the other night, would it?"

"No, nothing like that. It's just—we had a disagreement about—about, ah. . ."

Clark's face was bland and non-judgmental, and this had been a terrible, terrible idea. Dick slapped a ten on the table. "I have to go," he said.

"Making kind of a habit of this," Clark remarked.

"I have social anxiety."

"You told him about our conversation," Clark said. Dick winced.

"I might have, yes."

Clark appeared to be chewing on his lip. He was suddenly very interested in people passing on the sidewalk. "You're a good kid," Clark said. "But every now and again you are an unbelievable asshole. You had no right to tell him anything I said. You had no right to violate my privacy that way."

"I know," Dick said. 

"Bruce should be pissed at you."

"I know."

"You ought to be apologizing to me, not to him."

"I know that too. Clark, I really am sorry. I was trying to fix things, and I made it worse. I am honest to God sorry, and yes, I know I'm an asshole."

Clark was frowning at him. "Trying to fix things. What on earth were you trying to fix?"

Dick twiddled the spoon, licked his lips. "It's just. . . come on. When you care about two people, and you see them unhappy, you can't help but want it to be better, you know? So I stuck my nose in where it didn't belong. I should never have said what I did to you the other night. But the two of you. . . I mean come on."

"I'm not unhappy."

"Okay," Dick said, just looking at him. Clark looked away. 

"Bruce must have been pretty angry with you," he said.

"He threw Batcave equipment. Turned three new keyboards into kindling. I think he came the closest he's ever come to hitting me."

"Because you were trying to meddle in his private life."

"Because I had told you about his feelings." And there it was again, that flicker in Clark's eyes. Quickly quenched, gaze as quickly averted. "And yes, because I was meddling in things that were none of my business."

"I told you the other night, you're mistaken," Clark said quietly.

"Of course. So mistaken that Bruce just laughed off the whole thing like it's no big deal. You should have seen how relaxed he was about it, really."

Clark's finger tapped on the rim of his pie plate. He had stopped eating it some time ago. "Well," he said. "If I get a chance, I will. . . see if I can persuade Bruce to give you a call."

"So you'll talk to him."

"I will talk to him."

"I appreciate it," Dick said. "I really do. Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Clark left the money for the waitress, picked up his coat, and headed out the door. Dick finished his coffee and watched him go. 

That had definitely been harder than he had thought it would be. Clark might or might not say something to Bruce, but it wasn't like anything he said would do any good. That hadn't been why he had asked Clark to have coffee with him; that had been just a decoy. He had wanted Clark to know about Bruce's reaction, and this was the best way he could think of to do that.

The thing about meddling was, you had to have the courage of your convictions. He slid a tip under the napkin holder and pulled on his own coat. His phone binged at him with a text from Wally. He frowned and stuck the phone in his pocket.

* * *

And then, frustratingly, dead end. 

Bruce was still not talking to him, and Clark was doing that Clark thing where he would listen to you talk and nod sympathetically and not say a single goddamn thing, and at the end of the conversation you would realize you had just been shut out nine times more effectively than Bruce had ever managed. 

_So did you talk to Bruce_ , he texted Clark the day after their coffee, during his lunch hour. About ten minutes later, Clark answered. 

_Yes_ , was his reply. And then nothing.

_And???_

_Well, you know Bruce. Give him some time._

Dick stared at his phone in frustration. What the hell was that supposed to mean? The plan had been, get Clark to go intercede with Bruce for him — hey, give the kid a break, I know he was out of line, but he's really miserable and so sorry he let you down, you ought to give him another chance. Just like Clark had done about forty-nine thousand times before, when he was growing up. Only this time, Clark and Bruce would be in the same room, and Clark would know what Bruce felt and Bruce (maybe? if he had been listening at all?) would know what Clark felt, and Clark would know that Bruce knew and Bruce would know that Clark knew that he knew and. . . somehow it would work out.

His phone binged, but it was Babs, not Clark. _Thinking about you. What's up?_

He felt a small swell of happiness, the way he always did at Babs' voice, even if it was just a text. He could hear her voice that way, too. _Not much_ , he typed back.

_That bad, huh._

_sorta_

_I heard about Wally and Artemis._

He hesitated, but not too long. _yeah, finally, huh? wally's probably preggers._

_We can talk if you want._

_jk I know boys can't get pregnant. but if they could I would totally have your baby._

_Please don't ever call me and complain about Bruce deflecting again._

He didn't answer for a minute. She pinged him again. _By which I mean, I know what this means for you. I'm here if you want to talk. I love you._

He frowned at the phone. _Don't you fucking dare say that_ , his fingers ached to type. _Not when you know that you and I mean something completely different by those words. You think I need to be consoled over the first person who ever dumped me by the second person who dumped me? How pathetic do you think I am?_

Instead he wrote, _thanx._

_I'm in town next Friday if you want to hang out._

_define hang out_

_We could talk about our feelings. You could talk about Wally and I could talk about the guy I was seeing who I found out was also sleeping with my manicurist._

_youre kidding_

_not even_

_since when do you get manicures_

_People change._

He laughed aloud, and ignored the odd looks from Harley and Irene at the water cooler. _I dunno_ , he replied. _That doesn't really sound like my kind of hangout._

_Yeah, me either. Why don't we get a bottle of jack and fuck each other's brains out then?_

His grin deepened. _imma pretend that was on the level and say yes._

_Coolio. Tell Bruce I'll be in town, I want to run by and kiss him on his surly cheek._

_tell him yourself, we're not really talking right now_

_What? Why not? What did you do?_

_why do you assume i did something_

_. . . ._

_yeah fine whatever._

_?_

_its no big, i just accidentally told clark bruce was in love with him_

_O_

_dont overreact_

_MY_

_see i knew you would act like this_

_FUCKINNNNGGGG_

_just stop_

_GOD!!!!!!!!!_

_will you stop? its not like its the worst thing anyone ever did_

_I think that may be the WORST thing anyone EVER DID._

_yeah_

_Yeah?_

_i mean, i know. but its not like you think, i was trying to help_

_Oh well in THAT case_

_exactly_

_So Bruce is just being ungrateful?_

_something like that_

She didn't write back for a few minutes. He was about to stick his phone in his desk drawer and go get some coffee before his next shift when he heard the ping. _Babe, you can't solve the problems in your love life by trying to solve other people's. What if I came up to Bludhaven on Wednesday instead?_

_is this a visit or an intervention?_

_Both. Neither. I just want to see you._

_yeah, he wrote. ok._

_Gotta run. xoxo_

_u2_ , he typed. He stared at the screen another minute or so, then hit his contacts button.

 _I know you're not reading these any more_ , he wrote. _But I just wanted to say again how sorry I am. I truly am. I was trying to fix things in my life that are inherently not fixable, and I fucked yours up pretty good. I'm so sorry. Please just know that. You have every right to be furious with me. I promise I will stop texting and calling and bothering you. But I am sorry._

He hit send, and stared some more at the phone. It was silent and black. 

"Right," he said, and shoved it in the drawer, pulling out a file of paperwork instead.

* * *

The trill of the text alert on the bedside table tugged at his sleep-fog. He rolled over and yawned. He cracked an eye. "If that's work," he groaned, "I swear I am going to crush that phone to powder. You think I'm kidding."

"It's not work. And I don't think you're kidding." 

Clark raised his head. He didn't technically need to scoot closer to read the text, but he did anyway. He took the opportunity to wrap his arms around the warm body beside him, tucking his head over the warm shoulder, looping a leg over the warm thigh. "Oh my God," he said. "Poor kid. Have you not put him out of his misery yet?"

Bruce snorted. "His misery. What about my misery?"

"Hmm. Let's check on the state of your misery." His hands went wandering, exploring below the blankets. "Mmm. Yes, your suffering appears to be intense."

"Get off," Bruce growled, but there was an upward quirk to his lip. 

"I'm trying." That got him another snort. "Seriously, you need to let him off the hook. I mean, the fact is, from a certain point of view, we do have him to thank."

Bruce raised an incredulous head. He was rumpled and sleep-blurred, because it was only two in the afternoon and well before his normal rising hour, but his scowl was already at full volume. "You have got to be kidding me," he said. "We don't have him to thank for anything. If anything, we have me to thank."

Clark paused, lifting his mouth from the trail of kisses he was leaving down the broad shoulder. "You to thank. How do you figure?"

"It was my honesty and courage, my emotional fearlessness if you will, that got us here today."

Clark rolled onto his back and laughed, deep and warm and sleep-sated. He didn't remember ever sleeping as well as he had this week, which was pretty funny considering how little sleeping they were actually doing in this bed. It had been well after dawn when they had finally stopped fucking, and that had only been because Bruce's head had dropped to his chest, resting his forehead against Clark's sternum, and Clark had said, _you're tired_ , and Bruce had nodded wordlessly. They were sheened with sweat. Clark could have kept fucking that beautiful body for another fourteen hours. 

He didn't mean to be insensitive to the needs of Bruce's body, really he didn't. It was just that they had lost so much time, and he didn't want to lose another minute, another second of it. Almost they had missed each other entirely, and when he thought about that possibility, about maybe having gone his whole life and never having known that Bruce ached for him as much as he ached for Bruce, that was when he got frantic and couldn't kiss him deep enough, fuck him hard enough. That was when he drove Bruce's body to the knife-edge of pleasure that had him crying out, clutching at Clark's back, grinding his teeth and panting _fuck God don't stop_ while he came hot rivers into Clark's hand and mouth and body.

"You have to let him off the hook," Clark persisted. "I mean, at some point you have to let him know there's no harm done." 

Bruce gave him a lopsided, decidedly wicked smile, rolling back his direction. He left the sheets behind, so Clark got a good view of naked back and thighs and delicious ass. He didn't know what it was, but Bruce's ass drove him absolutely insane. Not even fucking it, just touching it. Gripping it, while they were grinding on top of each other. Feeling the clench that told him Bruce was about to come. 

"Oh I have to, do I."

"Mm hm."

Bruce was on top of him now, a hot blanket of muscle and skin. The cock nudging at his thigh was feeling a bit firmer. "I don't object to making him suffer a bit longer."

Clark's eyes narrowed, even as his fingers ran up and down Bruce's side. "You just don't want to tell him," he said. "You would rather he not know."

"I would rather everyone not know. The more people know anything about us, the more they might try to take you away from me."

Clark's fingers paused. "No one takes me away from you."

"I didn't say it was rational. And I will tell him, but you need to let it be in my way."

"And your way would be?"

Bruce was kissing a path across Clark's collarbone—more of a lick, really, ending at the base of his neck. It made Clark gasp, made him push up with his hips. "Bruce—let's—"

"Mm?"

Bruce had aligned himself on top of Clark now, but lifted off him just an inch or so. Their thickening cocks were touching. Bruce was beginning to rub back and forth a bit. "I'm thinking," Bruce said with a wicked grin, "that appropriate punishment might be making him walk in on us, at some point. Nothing too terrible, but enough to sear his eyeballs and send him into about six months of therapy with Dinah. Then I'll be satisfied."

"Walk in on us," Clark said, trying to keep his voice casual, but he knew the detective in Bruce had heard the slight constriction in his throat, and it wouldn't have taken a detective to feel the jump his cock gave at the thought.

"Like that, do you," Bruce murmured. They had been so hungry for each other that they hadn't had time to explore many fantasies, or. . . other things. There was a feral light in Bruce's eyes, watching him. The thought that Bruce might have an appreciation for serious kink went straight to his cock. "Tell you what else you might like—"

The text alert trill seemed even louder this time. "For God's sake," growled Bruce. "Now I really am going to kill him."

He reached for the phone to turn it off, and his slight off-balance was all Clark needed to seize the advantage and flip them over. He pinned Bruce's wrists, held his body immobile. "Oh really," said Bruce. He felt the tense of Bruce's muscles as he tried to shift them. "Move," he said.

Clark's mouth was right at Bruce's ear, his voice soft. "No."

"Your plan is just to hold me down here, is it."

"It is. I can do it without any trouble, obviously. I can hold every inch of your body so you can't move a muscle. Except for one muscle, of course. I can hold you just like this until I make you come. Until you can't help yourself, until you make a mess all over me and the sheets and everywhere, because my cock is rubbing against you just enough, and you want more but you can't get more, not until I decide. And then when you can't control yourself anymore, I'll—"

He broke off at Bruce's small gasp. Bruce liked talking, he had learned that much. The dirtier the better. Hot and hard and filthy. That was okay, Clark was good with words. He bent even closer, until his breath was nothing but a gust in Bruce's ear that shivered him. "And when you can't take it any more, my dripping hot cock will—"

 _Treeeet treeet_ , sang the phone. "Oh for fuck's sake." Clark lunged for the phone and hit the second contact button. Even in his anger he was gratified to see he was first. "Dick," he said, at the answering _hello?_ "Bruce is busy right now. He will call you back and answer your million and one texts, and your eleven thousand e-mails, as soon as he is available. Is that understood?" And then he clicked the phone off and tossed it overboard. Bruce's eyebrows were to the ceiling.

"You. . ."

"Get over it."

"I don't believe you just. . ."

"Yes," Clark said. "That was terrible. That was an awful, horrible thing, and your privacy has once again been violated. I don't expect you'll ever get over it."

"You unbelievable little—"

Clark fell back onto the bed and rolled Bruce on top of him. "You should show me what you think about that," he said. "You shouldn't let me get away with that. You ought to teach me a lesson."

Bruce was pressing his lips together and narrowing his eyes, and Clark knew he was trying not to laugh. "You'd like that, wouldn't you."

"Why don't you find out."

"You know the old joke," Bruce said. "The masochist says, hit me." He bent closer, whispering in Clark's ear. "The sadist says, no."

Clark's laugh was wide and breathless, and Bruce's kiss caught him full on the mouth, pushing at tongue and teeth and softened lips. The phone rang again, from the pile of clothes across the room where it had landed, and Clark caught Bruce's soft chuckle from his mouth, and laughed into the kiss.


End file.
